When he moved to the other side, his hand massaged where his mouth had been, never leaving me untouched.
My back arched.
My breath hitched.
He lingered just long enough to make it clear: I was being worshipped, not consumed.
Only then did his hand trail down between my thighs, fingers slipping between the folds, finding heat and wetness waiting.
“Open for me,” he instructed.
I obeyed.
My knees parted, and Creed moved between them.He wasn’t rushing.He was aligning.My breath caught as he guided himself inside.
No thrust.
Just pressure.
Presence.
A steady, stretching invasion that made my eyes flutter closed as I accepted every inch.
I moaned, low, barely audible, but Creed caught it.
“Breathe through it,” he said, braced above me.
I did—because he asked, because I trusted him to know exactly how far to push.
He began to move, measured, deep strokes that worked in time with my breath, not against it.His body was heat and weight and structure.Mine was soft, wet, wrapped around him, pulling him deeper with every shift of my hips, every exhale that turned into a moan.
My hands slid up his arms, fingers anchoring just below his shoulders.When I locked my ankles around his waist, his thrusts narrowed, grew firmer—controlled efficiency, not frantic hunger.Each movement was calibrated, shaped by the way I responded.
He dropped his mouth to mine, his kiss slow and consuming, tongue pressing past my lips in time with the way he moved inside me.The rhythm lulled me into that place between control and surrender, the exact place he knew I needed to be.
When my whimpers started to rise, he eased back.Didn’t chase.Didn’t give in.
He rested on his forearms, brushing my forehead as he watched me.His breath danced against my lips.
“I’m not here to take,” he murmured.“I’m here to lead.”
He lifted my legs, changing the angle, deepening the connection, but never losing pace.His eyes dropped, following the way my body opened around him, how it welcomed, held, responded.
I gasped as the tension built, my muscles fluttering around him, breath broken, fingers digging into his sides.Still, he watched.Still, he waited.
“Creed,” I whispered, his name the only word I could form.
His growl was low, close to a shudder, but he didn’t break.
He withdrew only long enough to turn me, hands careful, grip certain.My chest hit the rug, and before I could blink, he was behind me, guiding me back, filling me again.
I moaned sharply as he slid deep.The angle.The stretch.The unbearable closeness.
His hands gripped my hips, firm but not tight, his thumbs brushing the curve of my ass where the earlier discipline had left a memory.
“Still sore?”he asked, his voice just above a breath.
“Yes, Sir.”
